


Scribbles and Truths

by penvision



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble, F/F, One Shot Collection, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:01:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6778639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penvision/pseuds/penvision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A growing collection of unrelated one shots and drabbles featuring Cassandra Pentaghast and Josephine Montilyet.<br/>Fourth: Cassandra has a nightmare; a double drabble</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. worn

Josephine rubs absentmindedly at an unyielding knot between her shoulder blades as she shifts against her headboard and attempts to stifle another yawn. The low burning candle on her bedside table flickers as she works; the weak flame threatening to drown in its own melted wax, and the flitting shadows draw her eyes from the letter in her hand to the letters and missives scattered in loosely organized piles on the quilt around her. The knot refuses to give, as do the piles both here and on her desk, and she lets out a weary sigh, tries to refocus on the letter. The words had begun to blur some time ago and she has little doubt that it is closer to early morning than late night, but a few hours of lost sleep is insignificant when weighed against the sacrifices made by the other members of the Inquisition, or so she tells herself. One more dispatch, she reasons, and then she will rest. 

She flinches, startled from her thoughts, when the heavy timber door to her room slams shut, followed by a hushed foreign curse. Josephine, grinning, relaxes her involuntary vice grip on the now crumpled letter, setting it aside, and lifts the candle in a vain attempt to better cast its light, "Cassandra? You’re not due back until tomorrow."

"Josephine" the seeker mumbles, not without warmth, as she listlessly hobbles into the amber glow, left leg stiff and drowsy eyes all but shut. She pauses in her steps, swaying slightly, as her normally agile fingers fumble clumsily with the clasps of her breastplate.

“The Inquisitor should’ve camped,” Josephine’s grin rapidly shifts into a frown as she eyes the poorly wrapped knee, the frost glistening on bits of metal, the red stained gauntlets tucked in her belt, and finds herself torn between relief and concern, "Let me help, love. Do you need a healer?" She sets the candle down, slips out of bed, and begins to deftly unfasten the familiar remaining clasps as Cassandra’s frigid fingers settle against her wrist, thumb stroking her pulse point. Cassandra presses a soft kiss across her temple as she finishes the last clasp before stepping back and shrugging out of her armor, unceremoniously lowering it to the floor. Her thick gauntlets follow, then her belt, and she stumbles to the bed, collapsing on top of the covers and papers.

Josephine drops to Cassandra’s side instantly, too concerned for her to fret over the crinkled work, and looks for signs of distress, hand on her shoulder, “Cassandra?” The seeker’s breathing is already deep and even under her palm and the color is rapidly returning to her cheeks in the warm room, and after studying her for a few minutes for signs of pain or discomfort and finding none Josephine lets out a sigh of relief. She slowly traces her hand from Cassandra’s shoulder up her neck, cards her fingers through her short locks, unnaturally cool against her skin, and receives a low groan followed a few seconds later by a soft snore in answer.

Josephine brushes a soft, smiling kiss to Cassandra’s jaw and makes her way to the foot of the bed. She loosens Cassandra’s boots and gives each one a firm tug as she pulls them off, rewarded with an annoyed grunt from the head of the bed each time, before retrieving a spare blanket from the settee and draping it over her frame. Cassandra shivers at the added warmth and sinks further into the pillow, mumbling in incoherent Nevarran. Josephine rolls her eyes good naturedly because this woman in her bed is beautiful and grumpy and home and, Maker, she loves her.

She manages to tuck herself against the headboard once more, careful not to disturb the woman passed out next to her, and picks up the discarded, wrinkled letter. She is two paragraphs in from where she left off when Cassandra’s arm sluggishly snakes out from under the blanket and reaches for her, searching. Josephine laughs, her chest lighter, as Cassandra wraps her fingers around her waist, makes it through another sentence before the seeker tugs, “Jose…phine…”

“Alright,” Josephine combs her fingers through Cassandra’s ink black strands once more, nails delicately scraping against her scalp, as she sets the letter down, snuffs out the candle, and lets herself be pulled into enveloping arms. She feels papers crinkle between them as Cassandra buries her nose in her hair, tangles their legs, arms, fingers, together, and they follow each other into sleep.


	2. drabbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three 100 word drabbles

Cassandra wants to bring Josephine fresh flowers from every place they travel and to tell her that each one embodies a hundred moments when she thought of her, but both are impractical; the journeys are far too long and her words are far too small.

Instead she presses leaves and petals between favorite passages of beloved books, some with hastily scratched notes; of uses, meanings, history.

Cassandra presents her book to Josephine in their bed, blushing every time, feeling these gifts inadequate, but Josephine, who yearns to explore, treasures them.

And whenever Cassandra leaves Josephine studies them and envisions her.

...

Cassandra groans as Varric sweeps the pot. Again. “You’re hopeless, Seeker, even Ruffles couldn’t teach you.”

Later, between kisses, Josephine offers just that; “imagine the look on his face,” and Cassandra distractedly agrees. They play every night and she learns the cards, the hands, when to fold, when to raise, how to hide her tells. When she is better Leliana occasionally joins and they tell stories, eat snacks, drink wine.

Josephine is in Val Royeaux the first time Cassandra wins the pot. Varric stares, bewildered, as everyone congratulates her and teases him, then shakes his head, “I’ve created a monster.”

...

Josephine stands between Cassandra’s knees, her fingers softly carding through her hair, as the seeker rests her forehead against her abdomen, hands on her waist. It is late and the forge is silent and everything is soft shadow in the orange glow.

“What’s wrong?” Josephine feels her hands flex against her waist, “please, tell me.”

“You deserve better... I don’t know how…”

Josephine tugs gently at her locks and Cassandra looks up. “You want me.”

Cassandra swallows. “Yes.”

“I make you happy.”

“Yes.”

“Then that is enough.” Cassandra wraps her arms around her and Josephine once again strokes her hair.


	3. haven

Cassandra stands in the dark of the chantry's garden and regards the newly closed breach, now only a scar against the emerging stars, as lively music and laughter spill from the camp. Haven will celebrate until morning and she will be dragged only a little begrudgingly into the festivities at some point, but for now she allows herself a moment to reflect. The Inquisition’s path is unclear, as is her own, yet for the first time since the conclave she feels no sense of dread or urgency pressing on the backs of her eyelids, against her sternum, upon her shoulders.

Golden light spills across trampled snow as the chantry doors open with their customary groan and Cassandra is drawn out of her thoughts by a sound that she has not heard in a long time; Leliana’s laugh. Her real laugh; musical and light, and she knows the source of the spymaster’s mirth before she sees her. Josephine appears a moment later, her hands dancing in front of her as she weaves her story, and as she turns to grasp Leliana’s shaking shoulder she spots Cassandra and her grin widens.

Cassandra feels her skin warm, her heartbeat pick up, just a little, and allows herself to feel this affection tonight as she nods to them, turns back to the sky. A Fereldan jig winds down, seams into a slow Orlesian waltz, and she senses Josephine beside her. They watch the stars in comfortable silence as Maryden sings of old lovers reunited, her voice blending with the crackling of the fires, and Cassandra’s thoughts turn to the ambassador, as they often do. _It is a terrible privilege,_ Leliana had once said, _to be loved by Josephine Montilyet._

Cassandra, pulse still thrumming, shifts her gaze and finds that Josephine is already watching her, a soft smile on her face. She raises her eyebrows.

Josephine shifts closer, eyes lit with delight. "I had almost forgotten what your smile looks like."

Cassandra feels a blush creeping up her neck as she turns to face Josephine, she had not realized that she was smiling. “I suppose I am… content.” Josephine hums in agreement, tries to hide a faint shiver, and Cassandra enfolds her delicate fingers, ink stained and calloused, within her warm hands. “Where is your cloak?”

“I’m going back inside presently.” Josephine steps closer, and Cassandra recognizes her determined expression, “I simply wanted to congratulate you on your victory.”

Cassandra swallows, hands flexing, “it is a victory shared by many.”

“I wanted to congratulate you, all the same.”

Josephine rises onto her toes and lifts her chin, eyes expectant, and Cassandra, as if pulled by an intangible thread, bends down into the soft brush of lips once, twice. She leans her forehead against Josephine’s, eyes still closed, and feels their hands separate, feels fingers trace her jaw, slide into her hair. Her own hands find Josephine’s waist as she is happily pulled into another kiss, so tender it makes her chest ache.

…

Cassandra is one of the last on the icy path out of the chantry; a stoic, golden figure lit by torchlight at the top of the first bend, above the haze of disturbed snow, and the stragglers find strength in her fearless gaze and unwavering voice as she orders them to follow the trail of torches. Their numbers thin quickly; the tide of bodies turning into a trickle, and, though she does not know how many have gone before her, she senses that the loss of lives in this holy place has once again been great.

She measures the passing of time by the slow settling of the snow, the numbing of her fingers and nose; still dazed by the unexpected battle, the destruction of Haven, the sacrifice of the Herald. Odd shapes appear on the recently deserted path as the air clears; boulders, she thinks. Except they shift, and they moan, and abruptly her mind snaps into focus.

She signals down the line and cautiously makes her way to the first body, boots skating on the ice. He is on his hands and knees, coughing up blood, and as she reaches him she lifts her torch to see his face. She knows him, or at least of him; he is one of the cooks; a faithful pilgrim unexpectedly turned volunteer during his short introduction to Josephine. She had seen the bewildered look on his face as he agreed and sympathized, knew that she had worn the same look for the same reason more than a few times.

Now his body is failing, and she can offer little comfort.

Finally, finally a runner comes up behind her, winded, "Lady Penta-"

Cassandra cuts him off, "there are weak and wounded, find soldiers to help them."

He looks about at the bodies desperately, shakes his head, "my Lady, there is no one-"

"We will not abandon them. Find some." The runner nods and stumbles up the hill, disappearing around the bend, and Cassandra places a hand on the cook's shoulder. He looks up from his pool of blood and she can see the whites of his eyes, glossy with fear and death and, upon recognizing her, hope. She cannot remember his name. "I will not abandon you."

Her aid comes in the form of the chargers and a few of the rescued mages and, she thinks at first glance, Leliana. But the woman rushes from body to body, searching. Cassandra lets a mage take over care of the cook and stands, "Leliana, what are you-"

"She's not with the main group!"

Her heart seizes as a chill runs down her spine, into her fingers, but she cannot let dread control her; not yet. Leliana is as close to panicking as Cassandra has ever seen her; she is already heartbroken over the loss of Divine Justinia, and now the Herald; losing Josephine would break her. It would, in truth, break them both.

Cassandra catches up to Leliana and grabs her elbow, turning the woman to her, "go to the front, lead us, I will find her." Leliana's eyes harden; she intends to argue, and Cassandra does not have the words to explain, but she tries, “your scouts know these mountains, and you camped in them before. Cullen and I are inadequate here.” She would say more but there is no time, so she only squeezes Leliana's elbow, "I will find her."

Leliana nods, once, "you must."

...

After a few hundred yards Cassandra reaches where she estimates the chantry should be. She pauses, doubtlessly standing on top of its remnants, and studies the snow beneath her feet, ponders how far she would have to dig to find the roof, before scanning the area in front of her for any signs of Haven. But there is only snow, white and pure, a mountain’s worth of rolling swathes as far as she can see, and her hand wraps around the leather hilt of her sword so forcefully her fingers ache.

“Josephine!”

“ _Josephine… Josephine…_ ” the mountains mockingly echo her voice, but nothing stirs.

She tries again, shouting into the stillness, “hello!”

 _“Hello… hello…_ ”

She instinctively knows that there are no survivors here, in the foothills of Andraste’s tomb, knows that pressing forward would squander both time and strength, but her humanity calls to her to try. How can she leave the pilgrims that had flocked to her cause, that shared her faith? How can she leave without exploring? But she must, and in this moment she is powerless. It takes her a full minute to gather enough willpower to turn around, another to take that first step.

…

Cassandra trudges along the edge of the mountain path, knees and ankles protesting, torch slung low to illuminate the ground, searching. She is no tracker so this is her best, her only, idea; walking the boundaries of the trail, up one side then down the other, looking for some sort of sign that she cannot currently envision while calling out every so often.

A flash catches her eye and she looks up, sees a paltry orange flickering on the distant trail. It takes her muddled mind a moment to decipher the glow; a flame, a torch, a runner. She straightens, her back resisting, vertebrae popping, and begins the climb to meet them, focusing on the placement of her boots with each step.

As she gets closer she realizes that there is not one figure, but two, and her heart constricts. She will not allow herself to hope. Not yet.

“Cassandra!”

Her hands, knees, shoulders shake with relief. “Josephine!” Her voice is hoarse after calling out that name for hours, but it carries, and one of the figures breaks away and starts running down the path. She tries to will her legs to move faster, but she has been hiking for hours, and they will not, so she continues at her same slow pace. Cassandra loses sight of her as she fades into the long shadow that lies between the two pillars of light, and her heart batters against her ribs for long minutes.

And then Josephine is pulling her into her embrace, one arm sliding behind her neck and the other around her waist, slipping under the shield, and Cassandra lets her head fall to her shoulder, breathes her in, spreads her palm against her back, under her cloak. Josephine presses firm kisses to her temple, her ear, anywhere she can reach, the hand at her neck fisting into her hair.

Cassandra swallows, squeezes her eyes shut and sees Haven, buried, curls the fabric under her hand into her fist. “I thought…”

“Me too.”

She lifts her head and they meet in a rough kiss; all chapped lips and cold noses and hot breaths and _here_ and _safe_. Slowly their desperation fades, their kisses turn gentle. The other figure, a grinning Dorian, reaches them and they break apart.

Cassandra lets Josephine twine their fingers, waits for Dorian’s sarcastic quip as he eyes their laced hands, but it never comes, and they start making their way up the path in silence.


	4. nightmare

Calloused fingers incessantly tense and ease against her hip, gradually pulling Josephine from sleep, and she blinks away the fading images of her dream, disoriented. Cassandra presses herself flush against her back, choking out a tortured moan into her hair, and Josephine startles fully awake. She rolls over and takes in Cassandra’s strained face, traces the furrows of her temple, feels chilled sweat under her fingertips.

“Cassandra,” Josephine sweeps damp locks from her brow. Cassandra’s eyes snap open, unfocused and fearful, and her chest heaves with fast, shallow breaths. Her fingers seize Josephine’s wrist. “Cassandra. Come back to me.”

Cassandra blinks, her face softening into unguarded adoration as her eyes clear, and Josephine’s heart aches. “Josephine.” She abruptly releases Josephine’s wrist, wrenching her hand to her chest as if burnt, and looks away. “I hurt you.”

Josephine shakes her head and curls her hand over Cassandra’s fist, feels it quiver. “No.” She kisses her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, coaxes her fist open and threads their fingers together. “Never.” Cassandra brings Josephine’s hand to her trembling lips and reverently brushes kisses against each knuckle, then her wrist. Josephine shifts until they are pressed together, their intertwined hands between them. “Never.”


End file.
